Lost Stars
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Set during HLV, canon-compliant. After discovering Mary's deception and actions, after Sherlock is back in the hospital a second time, John is heartbroken and completely lost. Molly Hooper finds him, and invites him on a long weekend away, where hopefully some wounds can begin to heal, both for John and Molly. NOT romance, blossoming friendship. Possible triggers.
1. Chapter 1

Her head heavy and her body exhausted, Molly made her way from the morgue to the lobby so she could leave. It was a minute after midnight; Thursday had become Friday. In the elevator, she put on her light rain jacket before slinging her large work bag over her shoulders. In the reflective doors, Molly could see that she looked as exhausted as she felt: hair falling out of her messy ponytail, her posture slumped, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes…Nope, definitely not a portrait of true beauty.

She hated these late shifts, especially when it meant she had to be on her feet for eighteen hours. Thankfully, nothing too tragic or out-of-the-ordinary had come through the morgue today, for she had enough to worry about. After all, the man she was head-over-heels and unrequitedly in love with was lying in a hospital bed eight stories above her recovering from a bullet to the chest.

When he had first been brought in, she'd visited him and sat with him. But she had not seen him since he'd woken up for several reasons. One, she was still angry with him for using again. This case, whatever it was, had now put a bullet in his chest as well as giving him license to shoot up, and the last thing Molly wanted to do was forgive him too easily. Two, the front page news of every newspaper she had caught sight of today definitely soured her towards the detective. Whatever was going on with Mary's maid of honor, Molly knew that whatever it was would only make her get a sour and sick feeling in her mouth and throat. She already hated the sting of jealousy and bitterness she felt, for though she was no longer engaged (no thanks to her), she still had no claim to Sherlock. _And I never will…The heart is supposed to be wise, so why can't mine accept that?_

Thankfully, her depressing thoughts were broken by the gentle _ding _of the elevator and the doors opening to the lobby. Sighing in relief, Molly stepped out of the small cube, looking forward to a long, hot bath and a good night of sleep before her long weekend off and out of London began.

After everything she had been through in the past month, Molly only had one thought about that: _It can't come fast enough._

However, all thoughts of going home flew out of her mind when she saw John Watson make his way across the lobby. She waved but he didn't see her. By the look of him, the kind of state he seemed to be in, he probably couldn't see anybody. When he went through the door that led to the barely used stairwell, alarm bells rang urgently in Molly's mind for a very good reason: the stairs, unlike the elevators, led all the way up to the roof.

Without a second thought, Molly followed after him, up the narrow and isolated stairwell as silently as she could, keeping a good distance behind him. She didn't want to startle him in his state. When she finally reached the top, Molly opened the door onto the roof. The night wasn't too cool, it being the end of August, but it was drizzling a bit. Pulling her hood up, Molly looked around frantically for the good doctor. She was about to call out for him when she spotted John through the dark and the drizzle.

He wasn't standing on the spot Sherlock had stood when he jumped, but he was standing before it, as if contemplating whether or not to step onto it.

Her heart pounding in fear and worry, Molly quickly and quietly came closer to him, calling softly, "John?"

The doctor didn't jump or startle in response at all. Instead, as if he had heard Molly's voice from a distance underwater, John slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder. "Oh…Molly…hello…" was all he said, so quietly Molly almost didn't hear him, before turning his head to look back over the London horizon.

"Hi, John," said Molly, as calmly and normally as she could. "What are you doing up here?"

"You mean, are you going to jump or not?" retorted John bitterly. "Am I going to follow in the git's footsteps and see just how far it would be to make such a fall? Am I finally curious to see just _how _he pulled off playing Peter Pan?"

"No," Molly responded in the same tone, stepping closer to him. "I know that you would never do that, never even consider doing such a thing."

John must not have expected that answer, for he turned fully around to face the pathologist. "Why?" he asked, as if he genuinely wanted to know.

Molly gave a small smile and stepped closer to him. "Because you, John Watson, are not a coward. You are absolutely brave in the face of the worst situations. And you would never selfishly abandon Mary and Sherlock like that."

A spasm of true pain and heartbreak crossed the good doctor's face at the mention of the two people he loved most in the world. "So…if you really believe that, why did you follow me?"

"Because I know that any reason you have to be up here can't be good." Molly carefully lifted a hand and placed it on John's shoulder, keeping eye contact with him so he would know she was being honest. "John, I know that I'm not as close to you as Mary and Sherlock –" Another spasm of great pain crossed the doctor's face, and Molly squeezed his shoulder. "But I do care about you greatly, and I'm here for you. Whatever you need, I'm here for you."

Even through the dark and the drizzle, both could see and hear each other clearly, so John could see that she was being truly honest with him. He felt somehow safe in her presence, which shouldn't have surprised him. After all, Sherlock trusted her completely; she had been his helper and secret-keeper for two years, helping him stay dead to the world but truly alive for two years. Though he knew barely anything about her, John knew that before him stood a person who would gladly help him.

He took a deep and shuddering breath, looking down at his feet as tears burned his eyes for what felt like the millionth time this night. "I…it's…" Was he really going to tell her everything here and now? Was he really going to tell her everything _period_? He could feel in his bones that he could trust her…but he also felt in his bones that he wasn't ready to speak the horrible truths he had uncovered tonight. He couldn't face the full reality yet, not here and now when it was so raw. "Molly, all I can say is that…everything in my life has been turned upside down or…torn apart. People I loved the most, they…I can't even _look _at them right now, I…If I stay here much longer, I feel like I might lose everything else I have…"

Molly didn't know what to think, but she did know that hearing him say this in such a broken tone made her heart twist painfully in her chest. This had to be more than Sherlock almost dying from being shot. That had been several days ago, and her last update from Mary a few hours ago had told her that Sherlock was recovering well. And if Sherlock had taken a turn for the worse, John and Mary would have no qualms about informing her immediately. Something else was going on here, something that involved not only Sherlock but Mary…

But the pathologist ceased her wondering as she took in the sight of John Watson. He looked more broken than he had at Sherlock's funeral, and that was the very definition of a red flag. Now was not the time for Molly to speculate or make theories; if or when he wanted to confide in her, she would listen wholeheartedly. Now, what she had to do was offer him anything he needed that she could give.

_If I stay here much longer, I feel like I might lose everything else I have._

His words gave her an idea, and she made her offer before she could second-guess or change her mind.

"John, I plan to leave for Ireland on a morning flight. My family has a cottage near the Ring of Kerry; I inherited it after my dad died. I'm going to spend my long weekend there, and come back Sunday night. Would you like to come with me?"

John raised his eyes and looked at her in surprise. Obviously, he hadn't been expecting this: an opportunity to get away for a while offered right away. Molly expected to hear a polite decline, an apology for frightening her in any way and for being silly. What she got was something quite the opposite.

The surprise on the doctor's face melted into quiet, grateful, grimly determined acceptance.

"Yeah…I really would."


	2. Chapter 2

Half an hour later, Molly unlocked the front door to her flat and led John inside. "Thank goodness we managed to flag a cab at this hour," said Molly absently. "Anyways…this is home for me. Our flight doesn't leave for eight hours, so we might as well try and get some rest. Can I make you some tea, or get you anything?"

John shook his head, then remembered to say, "No, thank you." He held a small travel bag in his hand, filled with spare clothes and toiletries he'd gathered from his locker at St. Bart's before they'd left.

Molly nodded. "The spare room is this way," she said, indicating for him to follow her through the flat. He did, not really seeing anything.

She opened the door to the small but neat bedroom. "The bed's already made-up, so you're all set there," Molly said, feeling more and more awkward with each word she spoke. "The bathroom's right down the hall…I'm just going to reserve your seat and then get some sleep. We need to leave by seven o'clock, so are you all right getting up on your own or would you –"

"I'll be fine," John interrupted, his voice weary and his eyes looking longingly at the bed. "Thank you," he added, trying to soften the snap.

Molly nodded. "Good night," she said, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

Alone again, John heaved a great sigh as he took off his coat and shoes. Without further preamble, John fell onto the bed and was mercifully asleep within minutes. What wasn't merciful at all was that his dreams were vivid and haunted by terrible truths and betrayals.

* * *

The two of them barely said anything to each other until they were on the 8:20 AM plane bound for Dublin. Both were a little too lost in their own thoughts to communicate much. John was, at least, and Molly didn't want to pry or prod without him being open or ready. He seemed to her like a ticking time bomb, one that had a large amount of time to tick off but once it did would have catastrophic results.

After the plane had cleared the air field and the city of London, Molly gave a small gasp as she remembered something that had completely slipped her mind as they'd packed that morning. "Oh!"

John turned his head from the window, which he'd been looking out of listlessly. "What is it?"

"I've just realized," answered Molly, turning to him. "Shouldn't you or I have given Mary a call? I'm sure she'll be worried if you've disappeared for an entire weekend without any word. Sherlock, too; he'll probably terrorized the entire hospital staff until he finds out why you aren't visiting."

A hard and pained look settled on John's face, and he turned back to the window. "Mary would be very surprised if I contacted her at all, let alone came home right now. As for Sherlock, I imagine he'll be out of it for another day or two, so we don't have to fear for the St. Bart's staff anytime soon."

So much of what John had just said made Molly very worried, especially what he said about Mary. But still feeling like she shouldn't pry right now, Molly settled for asking about the latter half of what he'd said. "What do you mean 'out of it?' Mary told me he's been awake and alert for two days. Has his condition changed?"

John looked at her in surprised realization, then cringed as he rubbed his forehead. "Oh, shit…um, yeah, you could say that. He…well, he escaped the hospital late this afternoon."

"_What?_" Molly nearly shrieked.

John bowed his head in apology. "We found him just a few hours later, and got him back to the hospital safely. There was some internal bleeding, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. He promised me before he went under again that he wouldn't pull that stunt again."

Molly shook her head and rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "Why the hell did he do something so _stupid_?"

John didn't answer for nearly a minute, turning his head back to the window. "He had a good reason."

Feeling too exasperated to tread gently, Molly scoffed and rolled her eyes. "That's not an excuse! He could have caused permanent damage or even died!" She gave John a hard look. "Is this to do with the case he's working on now, John? Whatever it is, this case has already had him have a drug relapse, had him fake a relationship and engagement with Mary's maid of honor, and had him nearly die from a bullet to the chest! What more will he feel compelled to do for this awful case?!"

"_Molly_." John turned to look at her again, his eyes hard and desperate while his expression remained neutral but tense. He spoke in a low voice, making her aware that they were not alone, and she pressed her lips together in apology. "You have every right to ask, but I have the right not to answer. At least, not now. Please not now. I promise you: Sherlock will make a full recovery. I wouldn't be here if I didn't know that."

Looking at the honest doctor, Molly slowly nodded. She could see that he was being honest, through his pain and desperation in his plea. John wouldn't lie to her like that, especially about Sherlock.

Silence fell for a while after that; Molly turned back to the book she had brought along with her, and John turned back to the window. Surprisingly, the next time the silence was broken, it was by John.

"Why haven't you been to visit Sherlock since he woke up?"

It was the question that Molly had been dreading for the last few days. Frankly, she had expected to be asked this question a lot sooner. _They probably thought I was too busy with work, _Molly thought. _Or they forgot about me…that does tend to happen from time to time._

Refusing to be sorry for herself, Molly kept her eyes on her book and answered as neutrally as she could. "After our last encounter, I don't exactly trust myself not to either scream at him or forgive him too easily."

John's eyes flickered to Molly's bare left hand, and let out a sharp exhale of regret. "Molly, I'm sorry…With everything that's happened I completely –"

Molly held up a hand to silence him. "It's alright, John. It's the worst kind of condolence to receive, and the less of them I hear the better."

John nodded in sad understanding. An awkward moment of silence passed before John spoke again. "You've certainly kept a brave face through it. You were just…_spectacular_…with Sherlock, really. It's a shame, too, I mean…Only met him a few times, but he seemed like a nice bloke –"

"_John._" Molly's tone and glare were hard and cold as stones. "I know you mean well, but _please _shut up. I know you're not really surprised, that no one I know is really surprised, and I know _exactly_ why. So, if you get to keep silent about why you're taking this opportunity to run away from your reality for a while, then so do I."

And with that, Molly turned back to her book, missing John's surprised and guilty expression. He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when he had realized how much he'd underestimated Molly Hooper. John knew that Sherlock must have felt it at some point, either at that horrible Christmas party or just before the Fall. He wouldn't have given her such complete trust if he underestimated her, and John could see quite clearly now why doing so was such a mistake. And it made John feel slightly sick that Sherlock Holmes had beaten him in this.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence, both too scared to break it and open any other unknown wounds lest they be fatal.


	3. Chapter 3

It was not until the two doctors were riding a train westwards to County Kerry that the tense silence between them was broken again. The weather over the Emerald Isle reflected the mood quite perfectly: heavy gray clouds completely covered the sky, releasing a light drizzle every now and then but holding back a truly destructive downpour. Molly was (determinedly) engrossed in her book, as she had been on the plane since their "discussion." John had a medical journal open on his lap, but it only held part of his attention. The rest of his mind wanted to somehow ease the tension that had developed between him and Molly. After all, if they were going to be spending the long weekend under the same roof, tension would only defeat the purpose of being there at all.

So, in as casual but gentle a voice as he could, he broke the silence. "So, um, you said that this cottage is yours? Or, at least, your family's?"

Molly looked up from her book, assessing him with her eyes for a moment. Seeming to sense his peace offering, she marked her place and relaxed a bit. "Both, really. My granny – my dad's mum – was Irish, and she lived there until she married my English granddad. It's really become a vacation place for us…well, me now…"

John nodded. Deciding not to touch on the topic of no family, he went the safer route. "You get to go there often?"

Molly shrugged. "Really depends on work, whenever I get a few days off. Mike knows that, with no family, I'm his go-to for any emergencies or holidays, but he's really good about making sure I get some decent chunks of annual vacation time."

"Yeah, sounds like Mike," John said. "Even at school, he was the good guy."

Molly gave a small smile. Appreciating the effort that John was making, she decided to return the favor. "While you were in the loo at the airport, I made a call to a very old friend. Her name is Maureen O'Connor, and she's lived next door to our cottage her whole life. She was my granny's closest friend, so she's like family to me. I've told her I'm bringing company, so she'll have the house ready and tea waiting when we get there."

"Sounds lovely," said John, and managed to give her a small but grateful smile, which she returned. Each returned to their respective reading materials with ease, having eased the tension between them.

* * *

The rain had ceased by the time John and Molly had reached their destination, though the sky remained the same heavy and imposing gray. They caught a taxi cab from the train station to the cottage, which took them through the quaint Irish village of Kenmare. Molly's eyes remained fixed to her window, drinking in the lovely and familiar sights of her childhood. Even as John gave a tiny smile to himself at the sight, he could not help but feel a little envious as well. His family had never had a place like this, somewhere that they could always escape to for a little while.

The cab soon took them outside of the village, and down a wooded dirt road that seemed almost completely isolated – but in a good way. Molly had to help the cab driver in terms of turning into the right driveway, and soon John caught sight of a stone cottage. It was small for a two-story dwelling, but looked cozy as every cottage should. Constructed of gray stones with orange roof tiles, it seemed to fit perfectly in its wooded environment, belonging there as naturally as the foliage and wildlife.

When the taxi came to a stop, the blue front door to the cottage opened. Out stepped a woman who looked to be about Mrs. Hudson's age. Looking at her, John was reminded of Miss Marple: comfortable clothing, sensible shoes, silver-white hair, wrinkled face, sharp eyes and kind smile. Molly immediately got out of the cab and raced to Maureen O'Connor (for John knew this had to be her). The older woman smiled and held out her arms, into which Molly gratefully fell for a long, tight and silent embrace. Seeing this told John that these two were very close, and averted his eyes respectively. He busied himself with getting out of the cab, paying the cabbie, and getting both his and Molly's overnight bags out of the trunk of the cab.

"Ah! You must be the infamous Dr. Watson!" greeted Maureen in her merry Irish lilt when John had walked up the cobblestone path to the two women.

"Ah, yes I am," John said awkwardly, putting down the bags to accept her proffered hand. "Not so sure about the 'infamous' bit, though."

"Well, to me, at least," said Maureen cheerfully, giving his hand a warm shake with both of hers. "Most modern technology flies right over my old-fashioned head, but dear Molly helped me set up my computer last year, and the first place she linked me up to was your online diary."

"Blog, Aunt Mimi," Molly corrected with a smile.

"Ah, yes, right. I can never keep up with this modern lingo, but no matter. You're a very good storyteller, Dr. Watson. You and that detective certainly seem to have some fun adventures."

John couldn't help but smile for a fan. "Well, thank you, ma'am. And yes, we did…do, I mean."

Sensing that the conversation had encroached upon dangerous territory, Maureen motioned to the both of them. "Come in, dears. Looks like the heavens may open any minute."

The three of them entered the cottage through the blue front door, and John was not at all surprised to find that the interior was as picturesque and cozy as the inside. He looked at Molly, who was looking around the cottage the same way she had looked at the town through the car window. He'd never seen her look quite so at ease before.

"Why don't you two go upstairs and put your bags in order?" said Maureen, making her way to the kitchen. "The tea should be all ready in a few minutes."

"Sounds good," said John, who turned to Molly. "Lead the way."

Molly did, and up the stairs they went. She then led him into a room at the end of the corridor. "This was my dad's when we stayed here," said Molly softly, her eyes a bit misty as she looked around it. "The loo's next door, and my room is at the other end of the corridor, by the stairs."

"Thanks, Molly," said John, handing off her overnight bag to her.

"See you downstairs," she said, and then left, softly shutting the door behind her.

Alone for the first time since Molly had found him, John heaved a great sigh. Already, being out of London and somewhere new, he felt some of the great boulder on his chest had rolled off, making it quite a lot easier to breathe. Silently, he stripped himself of his light jacket and plopped his overnight duffel on the queen-sized bed. Deciding he could unpack later, John decided to take a closer look around the bedroom.

It seemed that the late Mr. Hooper had been a man after his own heart, at least in the way of taste. The bedroom was simply but nicely furnished, with a simple bedspread and simply carved bed frame and wardrobe. Walking to the window, John saw that it overlooked what was behind the house: woods preceding rolling green hills that John knew became the Ring of Kerry. _This truly is a beautiful place_…he thought to himself, loving the quiet more than anything. This relieved him most of all: the fact that he was at least _capable _of savoring quiet and solitude.

Turning around to face the room again, John saw that the only decorations were two paintings of the Irish countryside hanging on the walls (simple but beautiful) and nearly a dozen photographs proudly lining the top of the wardrobe. These caught John's eye, so he stepped closer to have a better look. The most recent one looked to be Molly and what John assumed to be her father. They were standing close together and smiling joyously, her father in a smart suit and his daughter in a graduation gown and cap, both holding a new diploma between them. John could tell by the type of gown that this was a photograph of the day Molly had graduated from medical school; he'd worn a very similar one fifteen years ago. Though both looked equally happy, John could tell looking at the father that the man was ill, most likely cancer. This would explain how Molly's father died, most likely not long after this photo was taken.

_Well, at least he was able to experience all the big stuff with her, _John thought. A darker thought passed through his mind before he could stop himself: _And thank God he never saw how she was with Sherlock Holmes, or how he treated her._

Wanting to move on, John amused himself by looking at other photos, which consisted of Molly growing up: awkward teenager, sunny child, adorable baby. Her father was in some of them, but there was no sign of a mother. Come to think of it, John couldn't remember if Molly had ever mentioned her before. Had she left them when Molly was small, or worse – had she died too young, possibly even in childbirth?

Moving down the wardrobe, John came to the last two photographs, each in black-and-white. These were the largest, the oldest, and obviously the most beloved to the late man. One was a wedding photo. John recognized a younger and very happy Mr. Hooper, dressed in a tuxedo and standing under a flowering arch with his bride. The young woman wearing a wedding gown was beautiful: petite, pale, with long thick hair and laughing dark eyes. This could only be Molly's mother – the resemblance was striking. Both were smiling, their mouths almost touching. Mr. Hooper was dipping her in a playful dance pose. Clearly, these two had been happily married.

The other photo was even more touching: the new family of three lying together on a hospital bed. The proud father and exhausted but beaming mother were both looking adoringly at the bundle in the mother's arms: what could only be a baby Molly, peacefully sleeping and unconsciously holding her father's finger. This was clearly a small, close and happy family. If illness had made them go from two to one, what had made them go from three to two?

Unfortunately, this question did not cross John Watson's mind. Much darker thoughts and bittersweet memories had clouded it. He thought of his own wedding, ending his and Mary's first dance with a playful dip and loving kiss. He remembered lying in bed with her, kissing her stomach and drowsily dreaming with her of what their child would be like. Such thoughts caused his eyes to burn, his throat to close up, and that metaphorical boulder to roll right back over his chest.

His only instinct now was to get out and away.

* * *

Molly, having just come downstairs, was helping Maureen to pour out the tea when pounding footsteps coming down the stairs at a rapid pace caught her attention.

"How do you take your tea, John?" she called. But he did not come into the kitchen. Looking up from her task, Molly looked down the hall and saw that John was heading for the front door, fists clenched. Confusion and worry filled her heart. "John?" she called, leaving the kitchen.

"Going out," he called, not looking at her as he almost violently opened the front door. "Don't wait up."

"What? Where, John? What's wrong?" But Molly's calls were in vain, for by the time she reached the front hall, the front door had practically slammed shut. When Molly opened it, John had already stormed down the path and was making his way down the dirt road towards the village. She called his name, but he ignored her.

"Molly, dear?" she vaguely heard Maureen call from the kitchen in a worried voice. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Molly said to herself as she watched disappear around the bend in the road. Whatever John was going through, all Molly knew for certain now was one thing: _This is really, really bad. _"I honestly don't know…"


	4. Chapter 4

_"This is John Watson. If you have this number, then I already know you, so leave a word or two and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."_

Sighing, Molly ended her third attempted call and put her mobile back onto the kitchen table. Maureen, who was washing up the dishes from tea, gave Molly a look of worry. "Nothing again?" She looked to the window, on which the rain she had sensed earlier was pounding without mercy. "I hope he made it to town and is under a roof, at least."

Sitting at the table, Molly lowered her face to her hands. Maureen walked from the sink to stand behind Molly, gently rubbing her shoulders. After a while, Molly spoke but didn't lift her head from her hands. "I thought I was helping him, giving him a chance to get away…Maybe I've made a situation go from bad to worse."

"No, darling," said Maureen, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly. "There is nothing you could have done. Whatever demons he is carrying, they are to blame and not you."

Molly sighed, rubbed her face, and patted Maureen's hands on her shoulders. "I suppose you're right, it's just…Oh, Maureen, I've never known him to be like this before! Even when Sherlock came back from the dead, so to speak, he wasn't like this."

The older woman sat at the kitchen table beside Molly. "Well, I know that if anything or anybody can help him right now, it is this beautiful place and you." She gently took Molly's hands in hers. "But honestly, my girl, I'm more concerned for you right now…"

Molly shut her eyes tight and sighed. She and Maureen had been frequent pen pals ever since her father had passed away. It had become a great comfort to her, for Maureen had been like family all her life, and to know that she still had some out there was lovely. To her Molly had always been completely honest, from the progression of her career to her feelings about Sherlock. But about what had happened a month ago Maureen knew next to nothing about.

"I'll be fine, Maureen," Molly said softly, looking at their joined hands rather than at the older woman's face.

"But you're not fine now," Maureen gently rebuked. "When you wrote to me about your ended engagement, all you would say is that it just didn't work out. That could mean a great many things, and seeing you now…I can't help but feel that it means something very painful, even terrible."

Molly made no response, but her jaw tightening confirmed Maureen's worst suspicions. She lifted one of her hands to rest on Molly's cheek.

"You know you can tell me anything, my girl," she softly pleaded. "I don't tell you this because I want to know, but because I hate watching you bear this pain silently and all on your own."

She watched Molly silently gather herself with what looked like the strength of Hercules. When she finally lifted her brown eyes to meet Maureen's green ones, the latter could clearly see the great pain she had sensed.

"I'm not ready yet, Aunt Mimi. I promise, I'll tell you everything in time; you know I always do. But I'm just not ready yet."

Maureen's heart broke as she embraced Molly. If Molly, who had been so strong through her father's sickness and the great unrequited love for this Sherlock Holmes, could not yet speak or even write out what had happened with Tom… Maureen trusted Molly, after all; if she said that she would tell her in time, then she would. She prayed with all her heart for the patience she knew she had to exercise now, and that she could help her now and in the future.

* * *

The rain lasted the entire afternoon. Before she returned to her own cottage, Maureen made Molly promise not to go out looking for John until the rain had at least lightened up. Molly reluctantly agreed, and spent the rest of the day trying to keep busy – or at least occupied – in her family's cottage. After unpacking all of her things, Molly settled into the sitting room. While she caught up on the last season of _Call The Midwife, _she worked on her latest crocheting project. Her granny and Maureen had taught her when she was a girl, and her most recent was a pretty autumn scarf, inspired by the one from _Mary Poppins._

But even with her handicrafts and a fantastic show, her ever-growing worry for John remained a constant. She looked out the window at least once a minute, waiting for the rain to stop. Around suppertime, it finally ceased completely. Ever the optimist, Molly put on her raincoat and grabbed her wallet. She would stop by the market and pick up some ingredients for supper while she was looking for John.

Despite John's apparent breakdown and her own secret pain, Molly was determined to make this weekend in her favorite place, if not a good one, one that neither would forget.

Thankfully, it being August, it wasn't dark yet. She saw no sign whatsoever of him on the path that led into town. Trying to use deductive reason that she had witnessed Sherlock use time after time, at least, she saw no signs. For one brief moment, she wished he were here; he would have tracked down John in a heartbreak. _Well, in the past, I've also wished that he could feel for me the same way I feel for him. But that's not going to happen, is it?_

Sighing, Molly pushed thoughts of the world's only consulting detective and biggest prat forcefully from her mind, and refocused on trying to find John.

Once she reached the village, Molly focused her mind on the most likely possibilities. All residences were out of the question; John would have told her if he knew anybody in the village when she told him where they were going. This left public places. The parks she ruled out because it had been raining heavily for the last few hours, and now were drenched in dozens of puddles. That would leave shops, restaurants, and…

Molly froze in her tracks as she realized the most likely place a man would go when experiencing a personal crisis. A moment later, she was on the move at a much more rapid pace.

Remembering the pub that she had liked to frequent most when visiting here, Molly made her way to _The Three Lions_. Her father had taken her there for her first real drink, and each time she had been there, the people had always been welcoming and quite friendly. She hoped that, if John were indeed in a pub, it would be in this one.

When _The Three Lions_ came into Molly's view, she couldn't help but feel a little relief at the familiar sight. It hadn't changed at all, at least the exterior hadn't. As she got closer, noises from the pub – merry music of guitars and fiddles as well as happy chatter at the end of the work week – reached her ears. Was John in there now, in a dark corner of the pub downing drink after drink?

Her footsteps were quickened by her fears. Those fears grew when she arrived just outside the pub, for then new sounds filled her ears. They were ugly sounds: angry grunts and shouts, blows from both fists and feet to another body, the scuffling and screeching friction of feet on the wet pavement, and the breaking of a glass bottle against the alley wall was the last straw.

Knowing with a chilling feeling in her gut who one of those men must be, Molly ran to the alley next to the pub, and when she saw what was happening, the rest of her body went cold. It was indeed John who was fighting with two other men, all of whom appeared to be drunk – but vicious.

Acting before she could really think about it, Molly ran into the alley shouting, "John, stop it! Stop this!" Reaching him, Molly tried to pull him away by the forearms, but in his drunken anger he pulled away with a shove. Unfortunately, it was more forceful than he meant it to be, and Molly fell against two trash bins and dropped to the ground.

Just like that, the barroom brawl ended. The two men – twenties, dressed like workmen, drunk but holding their liquor better than the doctor – looked at Molly on the ground in horror. Her eyes were on John, though. He didn't seem to be aware of what had happened. The alcohol seemed to hit him in the gut, for he staggered to the alley wall by the bins where Molly had fell, and promptly got rid of all his stomach contents.

The side entrance of the pub opened with a bang. "_What in great hell's name is goin' on out here?_"

The voice belonged to a tall, broadly-built man in his late forties, with dark features which seemed even darker now in his anger. But once his eyes fell on Molly, who was still on the ground, his anger melted into shock and worry. "Little Molly? Is that you?"

"Brendan!" Molly breathed in relief. She gratefully let him help her up, and gladly accepted the big bear hug he gave her.

"I didn't know you were in town!" He pulled back and looked at her. "Are you all right? Good God, did they hurt you?"

"No, no, Brendan, I'm fine, I just fell, it was an accident," babbled Molly, not wanting any more trouble, especially if it was on her behalf.

The man turned an angry glare onto the two men that John had been brawling with. "Seamus! Paddy! What trouble are you two good-for-nothings stirring up now?"

The two men, who already looked guilty, immediately pointed to the still-sick John and spoke simultaneously.

"He started it, mate!"

"He's the one with the problem!"

Brendan rolled his eyes. "Oh, really? Last I saw you three, you two were in _his _corner of the pub, not the other way 'round. And I'm pretty sure what you said to him wasn't all nice and innocent if this is how you three end up. You're lucky no one, especially her, isn't seriously hurt! Now get lost!"

They didn't need to be asked twice. Off the two went down the alley quickly and were soon out of sight.

Brendan turned back to Molly, who immediately spoke. "Please, Brendan, could you call us a cab? I need to get John back to the cottage."

He looked at John, pathetically crouched against the brick wall, and back to Molly with raised eyebrows. "He's with you?"

"Yes, he's a friend," said Molly. "He's going through a really rough time right now, so I invited him here for a chance to get away. Please don't tell me he's caused you trouble."

"No, no, no trouble inside," said Brendan, looking at John with both disgust and pity. "He's been drowning his sorrows in Guinness in the same corner by the loos for the past few hours. Tried striking up a conversation once or twice, to be polite since he's a newcomer, but it was like talking to a brick wall. He's got some dark demons, that one."

Molly could only nod, looking at the groaning and pale doctor, holding his head in his hands.

"I'll give you two a ride myself," said Brendan. "My shift just ended, anyway."

Molly sighed in relief and hugged Brendan tightly. "Thanks so much, old friend! I'll come back and catch up while I'm here, if I can."

Brendan grinned and gave her forehead a kiss. "It's good to see you again, little Molly."

* * *

When the three of them arrived at Molly's cottage, Brendan helped Molly practically carry John inside and up the stairs. Once they made it to the bathroom, Molly told Brendan that she could take it from here and thanks for all his help.

After Brendan had gone, Molly cleaned up John as best she could. Switching to doctor mode in her mind, she stripped him down to his shorts and put him under a cold shower. He was conscious, but barely; the cold shower helped to keep him that way. After she had lead him into her father's room and found some track pants and a t-shirt he could sleep in, John started mumbling to himself. None of it became really distinguishable until she had changed him and got him into bed.

What she heard made her heart stop and her blood freeze.

"_Mary Agra…Agra Mary…why'd she have to…fucking liar…she shot Sherlock, the liar..not even her real name..."_


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

John woke to the sound of the blood pounding like a bodran drum in his brain. He shut his eyes tighter, knowing that his already extreme pain would double if light were added to the equation. His memories from the previous night were an indistinguishable blur. He knew he was hungover, and that he had consumed more Guinness last night than he had consumed in his lifetime. He also vaguely recalled scuffling and then getting sick in a dark alleyway. But how he got into a comfortable bed (for that's where it felt like he was) he had absolutely no idea.

His need for information soon overtook his wish to avoid more pain from his hangover; he knew it was justice for drinking way more than he should have. So, slowly and painfully, he opened his eyes. His vision was blurry and it was too bright, for sunlight was pouring in through the windows. But John sucked it up and rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. The first thing that his eyes landed on when his vision cleared was the bedside table, on which was set a jug of water, an empty glass, and a few aspirin tablets.

Seeing these things and recognizing the room, shame filled John as he sat up and covered his face with his hands. _Molly…she does such a kindness by bringing me to her family home, and this is how I repay her hospitality? _Looking at what she'd left, and feeling his own condition, John surmised that she had really taken care of him since she'd cleaned him up and put him to bed as well as leaving what he would need for him to find in the morning. In his shame, and being a good man, John resolved to make it up to her somehow. But he knew he wouldn't be able to do that until he felt 100% again.

So, he sat up gingerly. His stomach twisted but it felt empty, which meant he must have emptied all of its contents last night. Another wave of shame washed over him. _Nice, John, really nice. You turn into your sister when faced with the first real kindness you've gotten since this whole nightmare started. _

He took the aspirin and chugged all of the water at an even pace, feeling how dehydrated he was. After lying down for an hour, John felt that he was ready to go downstairs and face Molly. He didn't feel 100% quite yet, but his head did feel significantly lighter. He freshened up in the bathroom, and then changed into a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans.

When he made his way downstairs, he followed the smell of eggs into the kitchen. Thankfully, it didn't make his stomach turn. In fact, he was eager to get something substantial into his stomach. Inside the kitchen he found Molly. She was standing at the counter, her back to him as she made scrambled eggs at the stove.

Remembering his shame and guilt, John stood in the kitchen doorway and knocked on the frame. Molly turned her head and looked at him. "Morning," he offered, trying to give her a smile.

She didn't return the gesture, but instead looked him over critically. "How are you feeling?" she asked, her tone calm but John could sense her worry.

"A lot better thanks to the water and medicine you left for me…and for taking care of me last night," replied John, keeping eye contact with her to show his sincerity.

Molly looked away and returned to her task. "Sit down, I've made breakfast. And before you object, I've made sure not to make anything that'll turn your stomach, and you need to eat anyway."

"Thanks, that's much appreciated, Molly," said John, finally entering the kitchen and sitting at the table. He helped himself to some toast and a banana that was already waiting for him, and once Molly had spooned the scrambled eggs onto his plate, he dug in. By the time he had finished his meal, he barely felt his hangover.

Molly ate in silence, so John did as well. She finished before him, and immediately left the kitchen. She came back in less than a minute carrying a pair of old hiking boots. "Try these on?" she asked, holding them out to John. "You look the same size as my dad."

"Sure," said John, his curiosity peaked. "Are we going on a hike?"

"If you don't mind," said Molly. "I always take a good long hike in the Ring of Kerry whenever I visit. The weather looks promising, and I'd very much like your company."

"Of course, I'd love it! I've been meaning to see it while we're here, too, and I'll feel a lot better having company who knows their way around."

Molly's only response to the compliment was a curt nod before putting on her own hiking boots. John didn't let it dampen his mood. He deserved far worse than this, after his drunken behavior when Molly had been so good to him. So today, he would do whatever he was asked of by her. Little did he know what that would entail…

* * *

If John were a religious man, he would have said that God had truly blessed him with this day. The weather was absolutely perfect for a hike in the Irish countryside. It being late August, the weather wasn't at all chilly. Though clouds still covered most of the sky, they were thin and did not promise rain. Today they merely served as shades over the bright sun, which was perfect for John's still tender head. The breeze was gentle, perfect to cool them as they hiked.

He'd only been to Ireland once before; he'd been in uni and his buddies had arranged to take a weekend trip to Dublin. John remembered it had been a weekend of great friends, great music, great Guinness and great fun. But he'd never been an eye-witness to the Irish countryside before. Seeing it now, he could see that the nickname 'Emerald Isle' was not exaggerated at all but well deserved. So rich was the green that John wished he could just bottle some up and take it back with him; it was a truly enriching and hope-giving sight.

The small lakes in the Ring of Kerry were equally enriching sights. Rather than a generic blue, the waters were a rich silver. Not the polished, platinum silver, but a raw and freshly dug color that somehow seemed more healthy. John felt that if he were to drink of this water, it would be sharp and cold, but clear his mind and fill him with the best kind of invigoration.

Everything about this beautiful place and beautiful day felt like a blessing to John. It would have been perfect had it not been for his quiet companion. She was too quiet, and the air of tension radiating off her served to remind him of his terrible behavior.

Thankfully, as they started along the shore of one particularly lovely lake surrounding by green hills and rocky cliffs, they were joined by someone both unexpected and enthusiastic: a black-and-white Irish setter ran up to them – John in particular – barking and panting eagerly.

John laughed, really laughed, for the first time in what felt like forever, and bent down to scratch the friendly mut behind the ears. "Well, hello there! And who do you belong to?"

Molly chuckled, and joined John in petting the dog. "No one, I expect. These kinds of dogs roam around here and are like a natural part of the environment. Not a visit here has gone by when I haven't seen at least a few of them. They're used to people and thankfully like them, too. And the coolest part?" Molly bent lower to the ground, picked up a stick, waved it in front of the energetic dog, and threw it into the lovely lake. The dog wasted no time in running, then swimming, after it. "They're great in the water."

John laughed again, and Molly finally smiled. She led him to a large rock that sat just before the rocky shore of the lake, and they both sat down. For a time, both were content to silently play fetch with their canine companion. Eventually, though, the dog tired of the game, and wandered off into the green hills. Left on their own, John sighed and looked at the water. "I always wanted a dog growing up," he said softly. "But Harry was allergic, so it was never an option. But my unit had a couple of great dogs that were great companions and morale boosters, especially for my patients." He turned to Molly. "What about you?"

Molly gave John a small smile and turned her eyes to the water as she remembered. "We had a cocker spaniel when I was young…Her name was Lucy, and she was a really good dog. She passed naturally from old age just before Dad was diagnosed…I wish I'd had her with me during that time, but what can you do?"

"Can I ask what he died of, Molly? He was ill, wasn't he?"

Molly nodded, still looking at the water. "Pancreatic cancer."

John inhaled through his teeth. "I'm so sorry, Molly."

Molly nodded. "It's alright. At least I had him growing up, and he lived to see me become a doctor. He was one himself, a G.P., and he was so proud."

"Yeah, I saw the photos in his room of you and your family…what about your mother?"

Molly shook her head. "I wish I could remember her more…she died before I was a year old. Drunk driver."

"Oh, Jesus…" murmured John, rubbing his forehead. He remembered the older photos in that bedroom, of the happy wedding and the joyous birth. It was moments like this when John was reminded of just _why _he was not a religious man.

His attention was brought back to Molly when she patted his arm. She was giving him a soft, reassuring smile. "Don't feel bad. My childhood was not an unhappy one. My dad did the best he could, which is the best I could have gotten. I never doubted I was loved, and he encouraged me to pursue my dreams rather than settle for something more conventional."

John nodded, and his admiration and respect for Molly grew.

Distant barking caused the both of them to turn their heads to the opposite shore of the lake, where they saw their new friend merrily running along the shore, occasionally getting his paws wet. They both chuckled at the sight.

"Well, it's easy to see why you didn't get a dog when you were living with Sherlock," said Molly. "I'm sure he would have thought of a few, um, experiments if he got bored."

"Oh, God forbid! And you're absolutely right."

She hesitated before speaking again. "Well, what's to stop you from getting one now, if Mary's not allergic? Maybe she is, I don't know, but take it from someone who knows firsthand: having a dog growing up is a great thing."

Any amusement on John's face that came from watching the wild dog disappeared in a flash, only to be replaced by pain and anger. His eyes fixed on the water, he finally answered quietly, "That's…not really an option right now…"

A long and very tense moment of silence passed before Molly spoke again, frightened but determined.

"You mean…since she shot Sherlock?"

John turned his head to look at her so fast his neck cricked. His eyes were wide in complete shock, but there was no hint of denial anywhere in his face, no matter how hard she looked. Tears filling her eyes, Molly covered her mouth as she breathed, "Oh, my God…so it _is _true?"

Being an honest person by nature, and too shocked to even attempt a denial, all John could manage to eventually say was a weak, "How…how did you…"

"You told me."

"_What?_"

"Last night, when I was cleaning you up and putting you to bed…you wouldn't stop mumbling. All I could make out was that…Mary wasn't Mary and…and that she shot Sherlock…and something about an Agra, I think."

John shut his eyes and, in complete defeat, rested his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. But soon, he felt a small, warm hand on his shoulder, and heard Molly's rich voice plead: "John, look at me."

When he finally did, the tear-filled grey eyes met tear-filled brown ones. "I wasn't going to push you into telling me anything this weekend. I have demons of my own, and I know better than to push a person who doesn't want to talk. But last night, like it or not, you talked, and I can't go any longer without knowing whether or not you, Sherlock, or anybody else is in danger. I also can't stand by and watch you try to deal with this the way you did last night; you know better than most to think it will solve anything or do anything. If you're worried about confidentiality, remember who you're talking to: the one who kept the secret of Sherlock's death for two long years. I have the complete trust of both Holmes brothers; not bragging, it's just a fact you should consider. So, even if all that's not enough, I'll make you a deal: you tell me your story…and I'll tell you mine. Deal?" She finished by holding out her hand for him to shake.

John looked at her hand, and then into Molly's eyes. And he realized that she was absolutely right – about everything. He couldn't deal with his demons by silence and the drink; his sister was living proof of that. He needed to talk, and if there was one person he could confide in about this whole horrible business, it was her. Not only would she not breathe a word of it to anybody else, but she would listen to him and not judge or criticize. She would do her best to understand and help. She'd certainly proven herself to his best friend and his brother, and he'd already learned in the past thirty-six hours just how strong she really was.

So, he made a very wise decision and shook her hand. He didn't let go of it the entire time he told her all he knew happened. He started right after his wedding, how Sherlock had stayed away from him and Mary for a month. Then to the day he had found out exactly why, the day he had brought Sherlock to her high as a kite. John told her everything about that day: finding a half-naked Janine in 221B, her PDA with Sherlock that had felt like watching aliens fall from the sky, breaking into Magnussen's office by breaking a heart, and finding Sherlock so close to death that he flatlined before being brought back. Then came the most painful part: the day Sherlock had escaped from the hospital for a very good reason but one that would devastate John to the core. He told Molly everything he had heard, everything he had witnessed, and the terrible truths he had learned and had yet to learn.

Speaking all of this aloud for the first time…John couldn't deny that it had a cathartic effect, but there was no way he could keep his composure completely. He didn't really try to; holding Molly's hand, her presence beside him, and being in such a lovely and calm place, was more than enough to make him feel safe. Tears fell from his face, and by the time he was finished, he was crying softly into his left hand. His right hand remained tightly encased around Molly's right hand, and her free left arm had wrapped around his shoulders. Her forehead rested against his forearm now, and she cried softly with him.

There was really nothing else either of them could do. There were no words either could say, John in reflection or Molly in reaction.

How long they sat there, on that big rock by the peaceful lake, softly crying and mourning what had been lost, neither knew nor cared. When both had let out all their tears, they sat up straight again and watched the lake, taking deep breaths. Their hands, however, did not separate; both still needed all the strength and reassurance the other could get.

Finally, when the silence became too unbearable, Molly spoke in a raw and hollow voice. "Well…at least your story is exciting…mine is just sad."

John looked at Molly, remembering the deal they had made. After telling his terrible story, the good doctor didn't want Molly to release her own demons if she wasn't ready to talk yet. "Molly, it's okay, you don't have to –"

"No," Molly interrupted firmly, eyes fixed on the water and holding his hand tightly. "I need to…I know if I don't talk about it soon, I'll end up doing something stupid like what you did last night." She looked at him briefly. "Sorry."

"No, don't be," said John firmly. "It _was _stupid, the stupidest thing I could ever have done, and no way to respond to your hospitality and kindness. So…tell me whatever you need to say."

Molly pressed her lips together, then twisted them around before choking out. "I don't…I don't even know how to start."

"Okay…well, you said it wasn't exciting…your engagement didn't end with a bang, then?"

Molly shook her head and took a deep breath. She looked at the lake as if she would crumble should she look away. "No…no argument, no blow-out or explosion…just woke up one morning to find his things gone, my ring gone, and a note on my kitchen table."

John's eyes widened in shock. He had assumed that Molly had been the one to leave him, most likely because of some unrequited feelings for Sherlock. John now fully realized how stupid that had been, especially remembering what she'd said about the subject on the plane yesterday. If there was one person never to jump to conclusions about, it was Molly; he knew that now, and he wouldn't forget it.

So, he covered their joined hands with his free one, determined to be strong for her now as she had been strong for him. "What happened, Molly?" he asked gently, quietly.

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him as a new tear escaped from her eye and fell down her cheek. Never before had John Watson, who had seen more pain in others than most do in their lives, seen so much pain in a pair of eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was a broken whisper of complete despair.

"I lost the baby."


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

John was so shocked that, for a moment, he felt more nauseous than he had felt this morning. Then he saw red, and he had to shake his head to clear it away so he could clarify the terrible truth he had just heard. "You…oh my…oh, Molly, you were…"

Molly nodded, and turned her head towards the lake again. It seemed to give her the strength not to break down. "Mary was not the only pregnant woman at your wedding." Her voice remained very quiet, controlled but calm but barely on both of those counts.

"I didn't…not even Sherlock…he would have noticed –"

"Sherlock never said a word to me that day, John, and as for you or anybody else, I was only a few weeks along. I'd found out just a few days before…"

More specifically, she had found out the day before Sherlock had come to her with the request of calculating his and John's alcohol intake. She had fully expected him to deduce her condition, however early it was, at any moment, but he never did. Instead, he had just said she looked "well." It had taken all of her strength not to break into a huge smile and giggle. She'd even tried to help him (and see the horrified look she knew would fill his face) by saying that she and Tom were having "quite a lot of sex," but that hadn't clued him in, either. That had been a good day…the last good day…

"I think, then…if you really want to tell me…you should start from the beginning," said John, placing his free hand firmly on her shoulder.

Molly nodded, and took a few deep breaths to ready herself. John waited patiently, trying to silently give her all the strength that he could give. Finally, Molly spoke:

"I met Tom about six months after the Fall. My friend Jan, a nurse in cardiology, knew him through her fiancé, Tim. He worked at the same prep school Tom worked at, both math teachers. That first meeting was, well, awkward, since it was obviously a set-up between our friends. But we liked each other, so we exchanged numbers. We met for coffee a few days later…and from there our relationship progressed quite naturally, even normally. Coffees became lunches, lunches became dinners, we grew closer mentally and physically, I met his family and friends. We became engaged about…two or three months before Sherlock had come back."

John listened closely, for he didn't know any of this. Just as he had not kept in touch with Mrs. Hudson during Sherlock's two-year absence, he'd made no attempt to connect with Molly. He was very ashamed of that now, but all he could do now was be there for her.

"After Sherlock came back, I knew I had to tell Tom that I had been involved. I didn't want there to be such secrets between us. He listened, he understood, but…things weren't the same after that. He noticed how physically alike he and Sherlock were, something I hadn't honestly noticed until he pointed it out to me. If ever Sherlock called me to the lab or to the morgue, for whatever reason at whatever hour, I could see the distrust in Tom's eyes even though he didn't put up a fight or objection.

"Then…I skipped a period, I went to my GP, and we found out I was pregnant. Just like that, everything seemed to be alright again. Better than alright. Both of us were…_so _happy…" Molly let out a watery chuckle. "At least he didn't think I was cheating on him, otherwise he wouldn't have been so happy. He'd have doubted the baby was his, wouldn't he?"

She was silent for a minute, and John didn't break it. He could already sense the terrible end to this story, but he needed to hear it from her before he could allow himself to react at all.

"Anyway…" Molly resumed, when she found the strength to do so. Her grip on John's hand was very tight now. "We seemed to get this new energy. We threw ourselves into wedding plans as well as…plans for a baby. We didn't tell anyone, it felt too soon, and we liked keeping it to ourselves. We wanted to tie the knot before the baby was born because we knew it would be ten times more difficult afterwards…

"So, about a month after your wedding, I woke up to the feeling of something wet between my legs and these…_terrible _cramps. Tom wasn't with me, he was at his place, so I called him and then 999…they did everything they could, but it was too late…I'd lost the baby by the time Tom got there…and he couldn't look at me. He said all the right things, but he couldn't look me in the eye…They kept me there overnight and most of the next day, then Tom took me back to my flat. I asked him to stay with me, I really didn't want to be alone after that, and he did…He held me, like he always does when we're in bed before falling asleep…and when I woke up all that was left of him was a note."

Red was beginning to fill John's vision again at a rapid rate, so he closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. "And…can I ask…what the note…entailed?" It was a great effort to keep his voice controlled.

Molly sniffed and hung her head. "Well, it was short and to the point. Basically, he said he was sorry for doing this but he had to. He felt that…I had only chosen him because I couldn't have Sherlock, the man he says my heart really belongs to…and that because of that…I lost the baby…that it was the sign he needed to end things for good…"

John's wish to murder Tom in that moment was greater than his wish to beat Sherlock to a pulp had been when he came back from the dead.

Molly looked at him with tear-filled eyes that she still refused to let fall. With violently trembling lips, she attempted to smile with the weak joke she gave: "See? I told you my story wasn't exciting."

Three seconds of silence, and then John stood up, tugging Molly to her feet by their still joined hands. "Come on."

Confused, Molly wiped her eyes. "What – where are we going?"

"We are going to hike back to the village, and find a distraction. Yesterday I may have gone into the village, but I sure didn't see it the way it should be seen. I'd really like it if you showed me around. Because, I don't know about you, but after hearing and telling these horrible stories from hell, I need a distraction. What do you say?"

Molly's face slowly relaxed in relief and she gave as much of a smile as she could give. "I say…_hell _yes!"

John laughed, let go of her hand, and led the hike away from the lake. They had barely hiked a minute, however, before he was stopped by Molly tugging on his sleeve.

"This distraction doesn't involve alcohol, right?"

John laughed and shook his head. "Cross my heart, Molly. I've learned my lesson."

Satisfied, Molly nodded, and the two of them resumed their hike. Both could feel that the boulders on their shoulders had lightened significantly, now that they had released their demons.

* * *

That night was a rare, unusual and wonderful occurrence for Ireland: the sky was almost perfectly clear of cloud cover. The quarter moon and stars were bright and clear for all to see. The two English doctors were taking full advantage of the view behind Molly's cottage. They lay on their backs, side by side, staring up at the sky and sharing a pair of earbuds between them. They were listening to the lovely ballad from the movie "Begin Again." Molly had immediately downloaded the soundtrack on her phone right after they had seen the movie that evening at the local movie theatre after an afternoon of sightseeing and an alcohol-free supper at _The Three Lions _(Molly had wanted to keep her promise to Brendan, and John had wanted to make a proper introduction and apology). By the end, Molly was softly humming along to the last lines of the ballad:

"_God, tell us the reason youth is wasted on the young._

_It's hunting season, and this lamb is on the run searching for meaning._

_But are we all lost stars trying to light up the dark?"_

The song ended, and the two of them extracted the bud from their ears.

"Who knew Keira Knightley had such a pretty voice?" Molly murmured absently.

"What a great lyric…in this day and age, that's becoming more and more of a rarity," said John.

The next few minutes were spent in reflective and content silence between them. The only sounds that could be heard now was their soft breathing, the slight summer breeze rustling the trees, and the occasional cricket chirp. After such a day, the first half spent in tearful confessions and the other half in true bonding, both Molly and John knew that they were real friends now, and close ones at that. They had learned more about each other this day than they had in the five years they'd known each other. More than anything, they felt safe with each other, safe to tell each other anything, knowing they would not be judged or rejected.

Eventually, John broke the easy silence with a question. "I know you had a cat for a while…why didn't you get another dog after your dad passed?"

Molly sighed. "I looked for a while at first, but nothing grabbed at my heart. Also, with my job and working with Sherlock, I have anything but a reliable schedule. Dogs need that, a real routine. Cats are much more independent, and don't mind being left alone unexpectedly or for a long time."

"Makes sense," said John. He opened his mouth again as another thought and question occurred to him, but he shut it just as quickly.

However, Molly had spotted this out of the corner of her eye. "What's on your mind?" she asked.

John sighed guiltily. "Well, it's to do with you and…what happened to you, and I don't…you've already told me what happened, you don't have to say anymore."

Molly gave a sigh of her own, a longer and deeper one, as if she were digging up some strength from within her guts. "It's alright…I know you don't want to bring me any pain…"

"It's just…well…I know you were still at Sherlock's beck and call during your engagement, and that Tom didn't like it…so why didn't you, you know, put your foot down a bit? I saw that, after you came back, you were a lot stronger around him and he had a new respect for you. I just…want to understand."

Molly closed her eyes for a minute before opening them and answering. "I did once. Really put my foot down, I mean. This was before you two met. It was late one night, I'd just finished a double shift, and he'd texted a demand for a fresh pair of legs. Being very tired and cranky, I responded with a definitive _no_ and went to sleep before I could really think about it. Two hours later, Sherlock knocked on my door, and when I opened it, he was higher than he'd been in the lab a few days ago. He was in such a state I had to call 999."

"Oh, Jesus…" John breathed, covering his eyes with his hand briefly.

"Yeah…that's when I met Mycroft for the first time. We had a talk, and he explained how Sherlock turned to drugs when he is bored, and ensured me that my job and position would remain secure, no matter the access or parts his brother demanded. I agreed, so long as Sherlock promised not to relapse. So, since that day, that's always been my biggest reason for always doing what Sherlock wanted. Yes, I was also infatuated with him, but I did have a will of my own, too." Molly turned her head to look at him. "So, you can see just why I was so angry I resorted to violence when you brought him to the lab."

A moment of stunned silence on John's part before he spoke again. "Well, you've guaranteed the first thing I'm going to do once he's out of the hospital is break his nose."

Molly gave a weak but genuine laugh. "That's what I wanted to do that day, but I'd never punched anything organic in my life, so I thought slaps were the wiser thing to do."

"I'll give you lessons if you want, in case he ever does something that stupid again," said John.

She smiled at him. "Deal."

Both returned their gazes to the stars, once again falling into comfortable silence. That silence soon became reflective on John's part, and he sat up with a huff, resting his forearms on his knees. "You know what really just…what I can't…"

Molly sat up and mirrored his position, looking at him. "What is it?" she gently prodded, knowing he needed to talk.

John huffed a sigh and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "After finding them…when we were all in Baker Street again and everything was explained…they both acted as if _I _were as much to blame, that _I _was being the unreasonable one!"

"How?" Molly asked, curious and worried. While she could never make any assumptions about Mary at this point, she couldn't imagine Sherlock being so cruel to his best friend.

"Well, it won't surprise you to learn that the most important thing that mattered to Sherlock was the case, which was the last thing he said to me before the paramedics carted him off. He said I could trust her because the case was all that mattered now…Even when we got to Baker Street, he told Mrs. Hudson that we were going to have a domestic." John gave a bitter laugh. "As if it could all be hashed out and forgiven in one little domestic!"

Molly snorted. "You're surprised? When has Sherlock ever shown anything beyond a preschool understanding of human nature? When have either of us ever known him to put anything before a case? And for a case as important and big as he sees it..."

John huffed a sigh and looked at her. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I just…I'm his best friend. Why couldn't he, for once, be on my side?"

"He was and is," said Molly firmly. "If he wasn't, he would have done what Mary asked him to and kept her secret from you. But he didn't, and he risked his life to do so. I saw him right after the Fall, John…he never told me but I could see how much he _hated _keeping a secret like that from you, and causing you such pain…I don't think he could bear to do that to you again."

John's eyes widened hearing this information before they closed in a brief moment of relief. In the next moment however, he was on his feet and pacing. "I wish I could forget Ma– _her _face in the flat, looking at me as if I were being unreasonable! And the both of them telling me that I'd…I'd put myself in this situation!"

"What do you mean?" said Molly, getting up but staying where she was, not wanting to push him.

"That because of who I am, what I am, I chose her, even if I didn't have any idea where she'd come from. That I'm addicted and attracted to action and danger, to…destruction, evil…what kind of sick monster does that make me?"

"_No_," said Molly firmly. Now she did walk up to John, stopping him by taking his shoulders and looking him in the eye. Even in the moonlight and starlight, both could see each other's features very clearly, both John's bright eyes and Molly's set jaw.

"You listen to me, John Hamish Watson! You are _not_ a monster, there is _no part of you _that is a monster! Yes, you are attracted to action, adrenaline, and dangerous situations, but that doesn't make you a monster. And do you know why you are? Because that is when you are in your element, and where you can do the most good. Not evil – _good_. You treat and heal the wounded when war is all around you, both when you were in the army and here in London. Sherlock knows that there is no more reliable, loyal, good or honorable man than you, and he knows how lucky he is to have you to take care of him and stand behind him. You're not most comfortable in action or in danger because you create it – you are because you _fix it_."

For a minute, John looked at Molly like a lost child in the woods who could finally see a path leading out. Then, for the second time that day, his face and body crumpled as he broke down. Molly didn't hesitate or flinch away; she held him tightly to her, letting him know with no words that he was not alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

Three o'clock in the morning found both doctors still awake, sitting side by side on the sofa in the sitting room.

After coming back inside, both felt too keyed up to sleep despite one's great emotional catharsis. So they had spent the next few hours listening to music on both of their music devices: comparing tastes, complimenting, teasing, laughing, appreciating, even singing along sometimes. Eventually, the soundtrack to "Begin Again" was being listened to again, once again appreciated and hailed. But when the song "Like a Fool" played again, and the circumstances and plot-point of that particular song from the movie was remembered, John and Molly had fallen into a heavy silence. No more music was played.

This is the state that they were in at three o'clock in the morning, sitting side by side on the sitting room sofa. Both were staring at Molly's mobile, sitting innocently and silently on the coffee table. Molly was looking at it, knowing what she wanted – no, _needed_ – to do, but trying to find the courage and the composure to do so. John, who felt a strong new connection with Molly on an emphatic and subconscious level, somehow knew exactly what she was contemplating. So, he reached out and gently squeezed her forearm. When she looked at him in reaction, he tried to silently convey all of the strength and support that he could give. Seeing this, Molly realized that she _could _do this now. Truth be told, she'd wanted to do it ever since that terrible morning when she found herself alone, but hadn't been able to until now because she had been that: _alone. _ And now she wasn't.

_I can do this now…I have to._

So, Molly took a very deep breath, and reached out with both hands. One hand reached for her mobile, picking it up and dialing a familiar number. The other hand reached out to John, who immediately captured it between both of his hands firmly, giving her the support that she needed now more than ever.

She knew that he wouldn't pick up now. He always turned his phone off before he fell asleep, so he wouldn't hear this until the morning. So only one short ring tone rang in Molly's ear before the cheerful voicemail followed:

_"Hello, this is Tom Whitlock. I'm away from my phone at the moment, so sorry I missed you. If I don't know you, leave your name and number. If I do, you know I'll get back to you. Thanks!"_

The sound of his voice, the first time she'd heard it since the day of her miscarriage, made her feel sick to her stomach. But she swallowed and steeled herself. This had to be done, and there was no better time than now.

A beep that sounded like a death knoll sounded, and now she had to speak. John squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

"I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you…" She took another deep breath to calm herself further. She knew, by instinct, that she would break down because of this, but by God she would wait until she hung up to do that!

"You had your say in your note, and now I'm going to have my say. And after I do, I never want to see or hear from you ever again. I hope that is clear.

"I don't need to list all of the terrible things that you did, all of the ways that you hurt me, because I know you. You're not a sociopath, and therefore you have a conscience, a strong one at that. I know you don't feel good about what you did to me, and I know that you will regret it until the day you die. What I need to tell you is what hurts the most, something that you obviously forgot completely, or you would never have done this: _I chose you_.

"I knew that Sherlock would eventually come back, since I knew he wasn't really dead. And yet, I didn't wait for him. I could have if I wanted to, even though he gave me no reason or cause to hope. But I didn't. I chose to move on and live my life, to open my heart to real love rather than bury it in a hopeless crush. And when I met you, I really thought I'd found that. For the first time, I was with someone who really made me feel loved and appreciated. You didn't think I was a freak because of my profession; you didn't shy away from my socially awkward habits because you have plenty yourself; you listened to me when I spoke, comforted me when I had a bad day, showed me kindness and respect every day. Most of all, you loved me like no man ever had before. And I loved you, with all my heart I did. And that's why, when you proposed, I said yes. I meant it, with all my heart, because I loved you…"

Tears were beginning to fall down Molly's face now, her voice becoming richer and more hoarse as she fought not to give in to sobs and keep her voice steady. All John could do was hold her free hand tightly.

"But you never trusted it, not even from the beginning. I see that now. If you did, you never would have let your insecurities get the better of you when Sherlock came back. Did you think, when he came back, any moment I was going to toss you your ring and say, 'Well, fun while it lasted but your replacement has arrived!' If I ever gave you that impression, I never meant to. Take John's wedding, for example. I wasn't annoyed with you because I thought you were trying to steal Sherlock's thunder. I was annoyed because you were trying to be like him! I fell in love with you not because of your similarities to him, but because of how different you are from him! I have never wanted you to be him, or for Sherlock to be you!"

Molly paused to take a deep breath, and hung her head. "But none of that matters now. You broke my trust irreparably and you broke my heart completely. Perhaps I should have kept Sherlock's advice: that I should avoid all attempts at a relationship for the sake of law and order."  
When she felt John's hand land on her shoulder, she paused and looked at him through her tears. He was looking at her, his message clear in his eyes, further emphasized by the tight pressing of his lips and the shaking of his head. Slowly, Molly nodded and resumed speaking.

"But he's wrong. This wasn't my fault – it was yours. And as terrible as Sherlock can be sometimes, I know that he would never, _never,_ blame me for miscarrying my baby!"

Molly shut her eyes tightly and seemed to fold in on herself, putting all of her strength in to not breaking down right then and there. John's arm went around her shoulders tightly. It was with complete awe that he watched Molly rally her strength again by straightening up and resume speaking in a calm, hollow, quiet, but firm voice.

"I can never forget what you did, which is why I never want to see or hear from you again…But I will forgive you. I promise you that. It will be the hardest thing…I have ever had to do, but I have to. Not for you, but for myself…Only by forgiving you can I ever move on and have a chance at happiness. I hope I can have that someday…and I hope that when I do, I can wish the same for you…Goodbye, Tom."

With a violently shaking hand, Molly lowered her mobile and ended the call. Only then did she finally collapse and start shaking with violent sobs, starting out silent until she was practically keening. Without hesitation, John let go of his other hand and slipped his free arm under her knees. He brought her onto his lap and cradled her like a baby, rocking her back and forth and humming shushes and comforting words to her.

In no way was John embarrassed or uncomfortable by Molly's breakdown. On the contrary, he felt both honored that Molly trusted him enough to show her pain and relieved that Molly was letting go like this.

Even the strongest of people need to break down once in a while. And in the last forty-eight hours, John had come to believe – no, to _know_ – that Molly was the strongest person he had ever known.

* * *

Some time later, when Molly's sobs had finally calmed and she was falling asleep in John's paternal hold, her mobile suddenly vibrated on the coffee table, lighting up and giving out sharp melodic beeps. Both of them jumped, Molly falling off John's lap and onto the couch; she looked petrified.

"Is that…?" John breathed, staring disbelievingly at the mobile, resolving to hunt Tom down and throw him in the Thames if he was daring to call her now when she'd asked him to leave her alone for good.

Molly reached out, picked up her mobile, looked at it, and sagged against the sofa in relief. Once she'd eliminated the beeps and vibrations, she said, "No, it's no one. It was my alarm. I'd completely forgotten that I'd set it."

"At this hour?" asked John.

Molly nodded. "I was going to walk to my favorite lake, the one where we talked, and watch the sun rise. And after…I still really want to."

"Can I join you?" asked John.

Molly nodded. "I'd like that."

So, John helped Molly up and the both of them got their jackets on. After Molly had retrieved a flashlight from the kitchen cabinet, she and John set off down the familiar path.

A half an hour later, they had arrived, and the first light was just appearing. They sat down back on the same rock they'd sat on less than twenty-four hours ago and settled in to watch one of the most beautiful shows that Mother Nature can put on.

"You know what would have made things a whole lot easier?" John said out of the blue.

Not quite sure to what he was referring, Molly responded dutifully: "What?"

John looked at her. "If we had fallen for each other," he said casually, shrugging.

Molly laughed, which caused John to laugh; both were relieved that she was able to laugh after what she had put herself through. "Yeah, that would have made things a whole lot easier, but it was never going to happen. That's nothing to do with you or me, we're just not each other's types. I'm not a part of any action; I just come in afterwards and clean up the bodies."

John chuckled at her morbid joke. "And I, in turn, am under six feet, have straight hair, and would look ridiculous in a long coat."

She elbowed him playfully, no tension between them whatsoever. Molly spoke shyly after a moment of silence. "If I say something that will sound cheesy, will you not laugh at me?"

"I'll try," he replied, smiling.

She smiled back, but turned serious as she looked at the mist on the water, beginning to turn silver as the light in the sky grew. "You know I was an only child because of my mother's premature death…in addition to always wishing she had lived, I always wanted a sibling. Perhaps a big brother would tease and torment me more, but…you feel like a supportive and protective big brother." She finished with a weak shrug.

John did not laugh, and felt no urge to. Smiling, he dug his iPod and ear buds out of his jacket pocket as he spoke. "Funny you should say that: you feel more like a little sister to me than Harry ever did."

He held out an ear bud to her, and she obediently put it in her ear. She watched him scroll through his extensive Motown collection until he came across a famous and beloved standard by Dionne Warrick, Stevie Wonder, Elton John and Gladys Knight. Once the familiar harmonica solo filled her ear, Molly beamed a watery smile of recognition and gratitude to John, who returned it. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they watched the mist over the lake turn gold and silver as the sun rose over the rolling green hills, listening contentedly to the perfect song for them in that moment:

"_Keep smiling, keep shining,_

_Knowing you can always count on me for sure._

_That's what friends are for._

_For good times and bad times,_

_I'll be on your side forevermore._

_That's what friends are for."_

* * *

The rest of that Sunday for Molly and John passed how the weekly day of rest should always be spent: peaceful, healing, and the closest to happy two broken people could be.

After watching the sunrise, Molly led John back into the village to the Catholic Church for an early morning mass held in Gaelic. The ancient language made the mass for these two outsiders much more appropriate: unfamiliar yet awe-inspiring and comforting. After this, they walked back to the cottage, and spent the rest of the morning fast asleep.

Lunch was spent apart: John took a long walk to mull things over more peacefully in his head, grabbing a bite from the village; Molly went to Maureen's cottage to have lunch there, for she now had the courage and want to tell her everything that had happened. She didn't cry again, but just barely managed not to. Maureen was as supportive as any mother could be, renewing her promise to always be there for Molly.

The afternoon Molly and John spent in the cottage. As Molly crocheted and John wrote down some cases he had yet to publish on his blog, they watched reruns of Miss Marple. Both thoroughly enjoyed watching an amateur detective who actually had manners, respect, and the wisdom to show compassion rather than indifference to everyone.

The tranquil Sunday spell was interrupted when Molly's mobile rang, and this time it was not an alarm. Molly picked up the mobile, John watching like a protective hawk, and only relaxed when she nodded to him.

"It's Mycroft."

She answered the call and put it on speaker-phone. "Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Dr. Hooper. I trust that you and Dr. Watson are…all right?"

The two doctors exchanged raised eyebrows at the uncomfortable but genuinely-trying-to-be-sensitive tone before Molly slowly answered. "We're…as all right as we can be, given the circumstances."

Molly had no doubt whatsoever that Mycroft knew at least the basic facts of their current troubles: that John and his wife were having serious marital problems, and Molly's fiancé had walked out after a terrible tragedy.

They heard the elder Holmes clear his throat awkwardly. "I am calling to inform you both that my little brother has just woken up, and wants to know why his…_friends_…" Both Molly and John had to hold in their chuckles at how Mycroft said that word, as if it were the weirdest concept he could never grasp. "…are not there with him."

John leaned forward to speak at the phone. "Our flight will arrive in London this evening, Mycroft. While I'm sure you know that, I'll just guarantee to you that we'll be on the plane, shall I?"

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I know Sherlock will be…grateful for your care and concern, even if he will never say it to your face."

John chuckled. "If he ever does, I'll know his morphine drip is too high."

"Quite right…and Dr. Hooper?"

"Yes, Mycroft?" she replied.

She heard him take a deep breath before speaking in a tone that she had only heard once before: when he had thanked her for saving his brother's life. "Remember that I am in your debt, and if there is anything I can do, British government or not, do not hesitate."

John looked between the mobile and Molly fully gob smacked, while Molly suppressed a very touched smile. "I do remember, Mycroft, and I won't hesitate if I do. Thanks."

The call ended, and John said, "You should be in a museum: The Woman In The Debt of The Holmes Brothers."

"Right alongside you, then: The Sidekick and Blogger of the World's Only Consulting Idiot!"

They dissolved into giggles that soon evaporated; the phone call had reminded them that this grace period in this beautiful place was fast coming to an end. Sighing, John picked up the remote.

"We have time for one more episode before we have to pack."

Molly smiled. "Excellent."

* * *

The sun was setting over London by the time John and Molly's plane had landed in Heathrow. From the airport, the two of them got into a cab that Molly directed to take them to St. Bart's Hospital. When they had arrived, Molly stopped them in front of the entrance, moving John aside to the sidewalk.

"I need you to do something for me, John," she said as she put down her overnight bag, her tone serious.

"Of course, Molly," said John, putting his own bag down beside him. "After this weekend, everything you've done for me, anything I can."

Molly took a deep breath. "I need you to tell him."

"Tell him…" When John realized what she meant, he stepped towards her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure, Molly? This is your story, not mine."

"I can't face him yet, John," she said sadly, looking up at the building. "I'm not ready. My trust in him has been shaken, even broken a little: I don't trust him to not react in a cold and indifferent way, and I don't trust myself not to break down in front of his deducing gaze."

John nodded, understanding completely and compassion for his new friend filling him. "Of course, Molly…I'll talk to him, I'll set him as straight as I can." His grip on her shoulder tightened. "I promise you, Molly: I won't let him get away with treating you as he has anymore, not on my watch."

She smiled and gripped his wrist. "Thanks, big brother."

He chuckled before turning serious again. "Will you come see him if he asks for you?"

Molly bit her lip. "Maybe…if you really believe he'll behave, and if you're there to start with."

"Of course. So, when do you work next?"

"Tuesday…I want to tell you: I'm going to see Mary tomorrow. I need to speak with her."

John tensed a bit but forced himself to relax, reminding himself that he could trust Molly completely. "Why?"

"Because I need to hear from her why she did what she did, why she shot Sherlock and why she deceived you. I may know all of the facts, but she herself is just hearsay. If that puts a target on my back, so be it, but I need to know for myself whether or not we have anything to fear from her still."

John eventually nodded, his eyes full of warmth for her. He pulled her in for a tight hug, and she gladly returned it. "Love you, Molly," he murmured.

Molly smiled. "Love you, too." They separated, and she nodded towards the building. "You should go in there before he's terrorized _all _of the staff."

John laughed and picked up his overnight bag again. "Or before he sets the building on fire. We'll talk tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'll call you," said Molly, picking up her own bag. John hailed a cab for her and opened the door for her. In gratitude and friendship, they pecked the other's cheek before John walked into the hospital and Molly's cab drove away.

* * *

After John dropped his bag off in his locker, he decided to take the stairs to Sherlock's floor. Remembering the state he had been in the last time he had taken the stairs, John sighed and shook his head. He had certainly come a long way since then, but he knew he had an even longer way to go. But because of his new and profound friendship that had formed with Molly, John knew that it wouldn't be nearly as difficult as it would have been if nothing had changed between them.

For now, he would take things day by day, and focus on the present. Before him now he saw seeing Sherlock again since that horrible confrontation in 221B forty-eight hours ago. They would have a long talk, most likely a difficult one considering the circumstances of their last meeting and what Molly had asked him to share with Sherlock, but John wasn't too worried. Their friendship was strong, and they had pulled through worse.

After that, he would see Sherlock through his recovery as both doctor and friend. He would also never let Sherlock treat Molly in any way less than she deserved, not while he was around. He would do all in his power to put his two dearest friends on good terms again, and help them figure out just what exactly they meant to each other.

As for Mary…like Molly with Sherlock, John was nowhere near ready to see her again. He had a feeling it would be a while before he was ready, but he knew he would be, for their baby's sake if nothing else. He remembered Molly's final words to Tom, how she had found the strength to promise forgiveness when he deserved to be thrown in the Thames…Well, John had no idea whether or not they would ever be okay again, but after this weekend and his new bond with Molly, there was a lot more hope on his horizon.

When he got off on Sherlock's floor, his eyes caught sight of the little gift shop down the hall. Knowing that they sold flowers there, John headed for that and bought a nice batch of blue hydrangeas; he'd seen bushes of them in Ireland and found them beautiful. They would be a good reminder of where he'd come from and how far he'd come – also something that would cheer up the hospital room and help keep his sanity when Sherlock acted like a brat. No way John was going to tolerate any bullshit he would give now, no matter his condition.

So it was with new strength and a healing heart that John left the gift shop, the lovely-smelling flowers in his hands, walking towards Sherlock's hospital room.

* * *

Molly soon left her flat after unpacking her things. She felt too restless to be cooped up inside, and a walk around London – its humming energy and artificial night lights so different from where she had just come from – perfectly reflecting that energy. So she walked, her wallet and keys in her pockets and her ear buds in her ears. If she hadn't gone to Ireland this weekend, Molly knew that she would probably be in her flat, all lights off and crying silently in the bed where she had lost her baby. She had a long way to go, but the first steps she had taken felt like the worst of the journey had passed her.

For now, she would take things day by day, and focus on the present. Her biggest priority now was to herself, building herself up again until she once again felt that quiet self-confidence she had lost when Tom had walked out. Her next priority was to her friends, especially her newest one. His struggles would be just as difficult as hers, and she would support him as much as she knew he would support her.

She hoped that her meeting with Mary would go well tomorrow, or at least give her the answers that she needed, whether they be good or ill. She had once put her career and even her life on the line for Sherlock; she now knew that she would do the same for John in a heartbeat. Even though she had yet to speak to this woman, deep in her gut Molly knew that John would eventually reconcile with his wife. For the child's sake, if for no other reason; John was too good and honorable a man to abandon his child. On the deepest level of all, as deep as Molly's empathy ran, Molly did not want this woman, who was experiencing what she had been denied, to go through this alone.

As for Sherlock, well, Molly had no idea if things would ever be alright between them again. If someone had asked her in that moment, or even since the Fall, what she felt for him, Molly could not say for certain; she highly doubted he could, either. And until the both of them could define it clearly for themselves and each other, Molly knew things would not be easy between them. But now John was as much her friend as he was Sherlock's. She remembered how he had supported her as she'd told his story and made that terrible phone call, how he'd comforted her selflessly. It had confirmed in her mind how great a father he would be, and warmed her heart that she had gained such a great friend. And that gave her great hope.

On a corner not too far from her flat, Molly spotted a small bike shop that was still open. On display was a beautiful bike: built for leisurely riding, bright turquoise with white flowers, complete with a cute basket on the front. She hadn't had a bike since her early days at Bart's. She'd given it up when Sherlock had complained that the bike was slowing her down when he needed favors (demands) from her. With that in mind, she gladly bought the bike and left the shop on it. As she began her ride, reacquainting herself with the wonderful rushing feeling, her iPod's shuffle landed on one of her new favorite songs, the one that she had listened to with John as they gazed at the stars, this time the Adam Levine version. She smiled and let the music transform the sights around her to true beauty.

And so it was with new strength and a healing heart that Molly rode downhill on the familiar rode, a beautiful song of hope filling her ears, into the gleaming lights of London.

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: **_Well, there you have it. This idea has been in my head ever since I first watched HLV, and seeing the movie "Begin Again" and falling in love with the song "Lost Stars" really got my creative juices flowing. I wanted to write something that was canon-compliant, and could appeal to readers whether they shipped Sherlolly or not. _

_Like some, I was unsatisfied with the big time jump in the episode and I wanted Molly featured more than she was. I wanted to examine how John set about to forgive Mary so completely like he did, and give Molly a storyline that showed her strength and compassion. I also wanted to bring Molly and John closer together as friends, because if you think about it, they are the people Sherlock trusts the most, and he trusts very very few. _

_Finally, I wanted to just focus on the two of them, like "Once" and "Begin Again" really keep their focus on the two leads, and leave the ending, which is why I didn't bring in Sherlock or Mary. I may write a one or two shot follow-up to this (Sherlock and John's conversation, Molly and Mary's conversation) if you really want me to, but I'm also open to leaving it to your imaginations._

_I hope that I accomplished my goal with this friendship story: to tie-up John and Mary's breaking and reconciliation, and leave Molly's and Sherlock's relationship open to all possibilities, romantic or not. Please send me your feedback; I appreciate all I can get._

_God bless, my fellow lost stars._


End file.
